Excerpt:
I am a whisper pretending to be a drawing.

H2: When Line Becomes Breath

The pencil sighs,
and I appear — softly, almost politely.
I am not drawn; I am murmured.
My eyes remember the idea of eyes.
My snout is a pair of portals,
leading nowhere, but beautifully.
Ich bin Schwein im Zustand des Nachklangs.

H3: Dialogue Between Shade and Silence

Shade: You are fading.
Silence: So are you.
Shade: Shall we call it peace?
Silence: Call it Oinkvana.
Together they hum the faint melody of unfinishedness.

H2: Blue as a Verb

Blue is not color,
it’s what happens when certainty melts.
Every stroke a hesitation.
Every hesitation a prayer.
I am the philosophy of almost.
Pig, thinker, fog.
Ein leichtes Rauschen in Graphit.

H3: Postscript in Pencil Dust

Do not frame me.
I’m still thinking.
If you blink too long, I’ll disappear —
not gone, just quieter.
That’s the secret of Dada:
to vanish eloquently.